


i don't know you, but i think i'd like to

by slimeblocks



Series: what's gonna kill you is the second part [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Concussions, Explosions, Gen, Kinda, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, POV Grayson | Purpled, POV Second Person, lotsa blood, they r . not quite brothers in this au but they care, wither burn au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimeblocks/pseuds/slimeblocks
Summary: you don't know what's happened, or you kind of do, but there's a man bleeding in front of you, and you feel legally obligated to help.pov purpled (2nd person) ; wither burn au
Relationships: Grayson | Purpled & Luke | Punz, Grayson | Purpled & Sam | Awesamdude, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: what's gonna kill you is the second part [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087895
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	i don't know you, but i think i'd like to

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a bit of a character study/way for me to dip my toes into an au my friends and i discuss often! hopefully we'll make a cohesive post about the au someday LOL
> 
> shoutout to au brainrot gc, esp ghost and bo, this ones for y'all <3 
> 
> some stuff for this one- i have a headcanon i've never talked with the gc about where when wither burns are reopened (they get pretty deep) the wither effect starts to set in again, though a LOT slower than the initial burn. that's why punz bleeds more than a regular cut :]
> 
> hope y'all enjoy it :]

you don’t know what to do.

there’s blood on your hands, and you’re not sure whose it is, but some of it's definitely yours, and you’re kneeling next to someone’s body, and you don’t know what to do.

you blink, swallowing hard, forcing your eyes to focus on the body laying in front of you, and you rack your brain for a name. the explosion had been so loud, and you’d been so far into the blast zone that your head feels stuffed with cotton, and it’s hard to think. which, to be fair, is to be expected when you get thrown 20 feet backwards and hit the ground without your helmet on. 

your back hurts. you think you have a concussion- though naming things is, evidently, difficult. you’re almost sure of it, however, thanks to years of experience with them from that offworld event you can’t seem to remember the name of. the feeling is a familiar one, to say the least.

maybe that isn’t the thing you should focus on in that present moment.

looking down at the person, you can recognise his face at least, though it’s smeared with red, both crimson and dark, both hues layered one on top of the other. his white sweater is also slowly reddening, specifically in the abdomen region, and you decide that names don’t really matter when someone is about to die in front of you.

you find yourself stripping off your purple hoodie, folding it once, twice, before pressing it to his stomach, applying pressure to the wound. it makes him cry out, and you wince. concern floods you, and you figure that you must care about this person enough to be concerned that he’s in pain, and even though you don’t recognise him then, it doesn’t really matter if you didn’t, really, because he must know you, since he took the brunt of the explosion, having pushed you behind him when the sound of manic laughter and the telltale hiss of tnt had reached your ears and the ground had suddenly left your feet.

you wish you could remember his name as well as you remember the basics of first aid, but beggars can't be choosers, so you let it be for now.

you realise belatedly that your mouth is moving- you’re murmuring comfort to him, hands still pressed down on your hoodie, and you see him open his eyes. slowly, and not by much, but they’re open, slivers of bright blue peering at you blearily. he smiles. you don’t expect that. you smile back uneasily. you don’t do well with strangers, but he saved you, kinda, so you figure you might as well make the effort. 

“are you hurt?” he croaks, lifting a battle worn hand to your face, smearing dirt and a bit of blood across your cheek as he strokes his thumb along your cheekbone gently. the shake of his hand prevents it from being as caring as he probably wants it to be. you shrug.

“i’ve been through worse, i think.” you respond. “i’m not sure, though. i have a concussion. probably.”

he laughs, then winces, dropping his hand. the movement seeming to pain him. you wince too- you’ve never been good with people in pain, and you lift up your hoodie. it’s soaked in blood, unsurprisingly, and you frown. this doesn’t seem to be working.

“i can’t believe my fucking chestplate broke.” the man in front of you says, head lolling back. he doesn’t seem to be talking to you. “sam’s gonna be pissed that i need new stitches.”

“i think you should be more worried-” you pause, swallowing. your head’s really starting to hurt. “more worried about the blood that is leaking out of your body in a rather quick manner.”

he laughs again, unexpectedly, and the sound fills you with warmth, despite the situation. it’s familiar, and safe, and it makes you want to help this man out even more. you want to know his name, and to hear him laugh again, and to remember him, preferably without the memory of him dying in front of you for the non-concussed you to have to live with.

“i’ll be fine.” he murmurs. “it’s just the opening of an old wound. nothing i’ve never dealt with before.”

his tone makes you frown, and the implication makes something sour curl in your chest. you make a noise of disagreement before pressing your hoodie back onto the wound. you’re going to need a new one. you find that you don’t really seem to mind. 

with a free hand, you pull up your inventory. there’s a pink liquid in a glass bottle sitting in your inventory, one you distantly recognise as healing. you pull it out, setting it down next to yourself alongside some golden apples. when you wave your hand to make the inventory popup disappear, you see the man staring at the potion, face paled. he seems afraid- the primal kind of fear, and when you reach your hand towards the tiny pile of items to pick it up, his face pales further, his breathing a little uneven. you know it’s not because of blood loss. 

because he’s watching your hand, you make a thumbs down. it’s a question. he looks back up at you, and shakes his head.

“gapples, please.” 

you nod. you’re very tired, all of a sudden, and your tongue feels heavy in your mouth, rendering you unable to respond verbally. you know you can’t sleep yet, though, so you busy yourself with feeding him a gapple. you watch as a little bit of color returns to his face slowly, and make sure the wound isn’t bleeding as heavily before laying your head gingerly against his side, one hand still pressing down on the wound on his other side, though weakly. the man seems tired too- he lets out a sigh. the same hand that had been on your cheek comes to rest on the top of your head. you’re glad you didn’t land on his injured side. you don’t think you can handle another second of being upright. 

your communicator had made its way into your free hand at some point, after the gapple was gone, and you have someone’s contact open; sam. you don't know who that is, but the name is familiar, and not just because the man who was bleeding out slowly underneath you had said his name. your mind flashes briefly with a shade of green- an attempt at a memory, muddled a bit by the probable concussion. you can tell it's a darker shade than the green of the man who'd lit the tnt, which comforts you somewhat. a pre-written message is already in the bar, ready to be sent.

_punz is hurt. sos. stitches ripped._

you don’t remember typing it (you doubt you did it recently, especially in the state you're in- you’ve never been a fast typer, even with both thumbs and a working brain), but you send it anyways, unable to think about it for too long. you watch the delivered message be read before putting the communicator down, resting your arm against your stomach. there’s a wound there, shrapnel (you can feel it in your lower stomach), and you think about how much it’s going to hurt when adrenaline wears off. you close your eyes, letting the feeling of the man running his fingers through your hair lull you to sleep. you are exhausted.

you don’t know how much time passes before you feel something being pressed to your lips, and you try your best to lift heavy eyelids. a man with a creeper mask is kneeling in front of you, concern evident in the twist of his mouth. 

“drink.” he says softly. and who are you to refuse? 

when you finish, you turn your head to look at the face of the man you were helping. the angle is weird, but you see that his eyes are barely open, but he’s still breathing, and you find yourself letting out a breath of relief. when you crane your neck back (with difficulty), there’s another man, dressed in blue with goggles on his head, stitching up what looks like a wither burn that occupies a majority of the man in white’s abdomen. you frown. you don’t remember there being withers during the explosion. 

“he’ll be fine, purp.” the man says, voice still soft, and you feel yourself nod, but your scattered thoughts come together for a brief moment to tell you that there’s something more to the voice that implies he might not be. you lose that thought quickly- healing potions are fast acting, and you can feel the beginnings of the horrible pain that acts as a trade off for quicker healing.

you can’t think about anything for much longer, really, as the aforementioned pain from the healing potion hits you suddenly, seeming to have wanted to deal with the definite concussion first. the last thing you think you hear is soft sobbing and pleading before you pass out.

it sounds vaguely like someone asking for someone else not to use healing pots.

when you wakes, you wonder about the screams that had plagued your dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> @sIimeblocks on twt, follow me i tweet about punz and purpled a lot


End file.
